


dawn, broken

by demotu



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-13
Updated: 2008-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demotu/pseuds/demotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow will happen with all the weight of today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dawn, broken

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a little smutting bee in which I participated, where we were given the prompt of Ianto giving Jack a blow job, surrounded by his coat in a semi-public setting, set in the first season. This is my response. [](http://onebrightroad.livejournal.com/profile)[**onebrightroad**](http://onebrightroad.livejournal.com/)'s is [here](http://rsrs-fic.livejournal.com/1599.html), [](http://sanginmychains.livejournal.com/profile)[**sanginmychains**](http://sanginmychains.livejournal.com/)' is [here](http://sanginmychains.livejournal.com/7780.html#cutid1), and [](http://definehome.livejournal.com/profile)[**definehome**](http://definehome.livejournal.com/)’s is [here](http://definehome.livejournal.com/7953.html). All three of them helped alpha, beta, and generally make this a better story.

The painkillers do Ianto in, in the end, and Jack insists he sleep in the Hub rather than driving home. It’s the last in a series of oddly tender actions on Jack’s part when they return from the countryside, and Ianto, exhausted and battered as he is, can’t work up the energy to wonder at the guilt he saw in Jack’s eyes as he wound gauze around Ianto’s rope-burned wrists. Instead, he falls asleep on the couch under a blanket Jack dragged up from his quarters.

When he wakes, the only light in the Hub comes from Jack’s office, a yellow glow out through the slats in the blinds. He has to squint to read his watch, but it says it’s a quarter to five. That’s seven hours of sleep, an age for Ianto, so he struggles to his feet and pulls on his boots.

Jack isn’t in his office, despite the lights, and a quick peek reveals he’s not in his quarters, either. Ianto scans the CCTV monitors, checking Jack’s usual haunts through the hub and on the local roofs, before finding him in on the Plass by the water. Ianto missed the figure by the bay at first, because Jack isn’t wearing his coat and Ianto didn’t recognize him. He watches Jack for a little bit, disturbed by the lack of a coat both because – well, Jack never leaves the hub without it, and also because it’s barely dawn and Wales and therefore too cold for shirtsleeves.

After a little debate, Ianto finds Jack’s coat slung over a railing, puts on his own, and takes the long route to the surface, through the Tourist Entrance. The sun isn’t quite over the horizon when he steps through the door, and the air is still night-cool, intensifying the smell of the sea as he locks up and wanders in the direction of Jack’s last location.

He’s still there, leaning artfully against the railing, but Ianto can see from a distance that there’s weight in his shoulders. Ianto clears his throat so that Jack knows he’s there, and Jack looks back over his shoulder. He looks weary in the light of dawn.

“What are you doing up?”

“Done sleeping,” Ianto says, stepping up beside him and proffering the coat. “It’s too cold out, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

Jack stares down at the coat as if he’s never seen it before, and then barks a laugh. “And you care, why?”

Ianto flinches. “I don’t want you dead. I never wanted you dead.”

“No – you just wanted to watch me die, right?” Jack waves off his protest. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I brought it up.” He reaches out for the coat, but Ianto sidesteps him and moves behind him, hands slipping to the lapels to shake it open. A peace offering, maybe, except Ianto knows that with Torchwood there will never be peace, not really.

Jack lets him slip it on, moving his arms through the sleeves and shifting as the weight of it settles on his shoulders. Ianto wants to linger, to brush away nonexistent pieces of fluff, but he lets go and stands beside Jack, hands on the railing and face turned to the sea.

Jack twitches at the cuffs, shifting as if he's uncomfortable, which would be laughable if it weren't obvious. Ianto knows he loves the coat more than anything else he owns, precious little of that there is.

“You all right, sir?” he asks, eyes flitting sideways.

Jack snorts. “I’m fine. Gwen’s shot, you’re battered within an inch of your life, and Owen and Tosh are traumatized, but I’m fine.” He rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Isn’t that how it always is?”

“I suppose you’ve been lucky so far,” Ianto concedes. “Except – you’re not really, are you?”

Jack stiffens, casting him a sharp look, and Ianto inhales slowly before speaking.

“When we get hurt, you do, too. Isn’t that how it is? You’re our leader, we’re part of your team, and when your team is hurting…” He trails off. It sounds so trite, put that way, but Ianto’s never been in charge, so he can only guess.

“I’m responsible for you,” Jack says quietly. His laugh is dark and bitter, and it makes Ianto shiver. “I don’t do a very good job of that, do I?”

“You’re our leader,” Ianto repeats. “But you’re not our protector. You aren’t here to save us – from ourselves or anyone else.”

“I should be able to.”

“Why?”

Jack shifts and lets go of the railing, facing Ianto with a hard look.

“What else am I good for?” he demands. “I’m not a good boss, Ianto, and don’t tell me otherwise. I bully, I yell, I’m not diplomatic and I don’t, obviously, keep track of my employees very well.” Ianto doesn’t flinch, because this isn’t about him. “I’m a soldier, plain and simple, a commander, maybe, called into battle and charged with protecting his troops. And I can’t even do that right.”

Ianto searches Jack’s face, and for a moment it slips from determined anger to desperation. “You don’t like being in charge,” he says. This is a revelation, for Ianto. He knows Jack isn’t good at it, but he’s always assumed that Jack, with his ego and bravado, likes holding the fate of the world in his hand.

“No!” Jack says, standing up straight and pacing a few steps before turning back. “I’m not – I don’t know what I’m not. I’m not him, maybe,” and Ianto doesn’t know what he means but listens anyway, “I’m not good enough, or noble enough, or wise enough. God knows I can’t be more self-sacrificing than I am, but I never make the right choices because I just can’t.” He rakes a hand through his hair and his hand is trembling, maybe with exhaustion but probably not, because Ianto can’t think of a time he’s seen Jack actually tired.

Ianto hasn’t forgotten the things he said, the things Jack did; nor can he ignore the canyon of silence betrayal has eroded between them, but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t Jack their leader, and that feels wrong, but it means he can do this.

Jack startles when Ianto reaches out, but doesn’t move as Ianto runs a hand along the collar of his greatcoat, tracing down beside the buttons along the front, before gripping the edge and tugging in. There is resistance, but Jack lets Ianto reel him in, wary and uncertain.

“What – ”

“Shh,” Ianto says, spreading his hands across the planes of Jack’s chest, thumbs resting at the sharp points of his collarbone.

Jack frowns, confused, and reaches up to wrap his hands around Ianto’s bandaged wrists. “You don’t – you’re not…” He struggles for the words, and this time Ianto waits. “I thought you didn’t want this,” Jack settles on, though it feels inadequate.

Ianto shakes his head, and Jack flinches back, stopped only by one of Ianto’s hands curling around the back of his neck, cool against his skin under the collar. “This isn’t about me.” He leans in, and Jack is sure he is going to kiss him, but instead he slides his cheek against Jack, breath tickling his ear. “Let me do this, Jack.”

Jack’s gut twists, an arc of lust cutting through his apprehension, and he nods silently, his cheek gliding roughly against Ianto’s. He doesn’t know what the _this_ Ianto wants to do is, but he’s not feeling very in charge now, so it seems fitting.

Ianto pulls back and gives him a nod, taking him in with the thoughtful consideration of an artist examining a potential subject. Jack lets his hands fall to the side, trying to convey some semblance of openness. While Ianto watches Jack, Jack watches Ianto. He is still beautiful; more so for being less than his immaculate, perfect self. His cheeks are pink in the cool air, and bruises outline his jaw and temple. His coat is undone, and Jack lets his eyes wander down the strip from the hollow of his throat to the sag of unbelted trousers on his hips. Jack can see that if Ianto rolled his shoulders, a line of skin would show, and he suddenly, desperately wants to see it.

“Can I touch you?” he asks.

Ianto shakes his head, not meeting Jack’s eyes, and drags his hands down Jack’s chest, fingernails scraping over Jack’s nipples, taut with cold, and further. Ianto’s body follows their trail downward, moving with the stiffness of someone banged and bruised, and Jack inhales sharply when Ianto ends up on his knees.

“Ianto – ” Jack starts, but it’s cut off by a gasp as Ianto leans in and rubs his face across Jack’s crotch. Jack’s hands fly up, but he redirects them at the last moment, gripping the railing instead of Ianto’s head. Shifting to widen his stance, Jack stares down, wide-eyed, as Ianto undoes his belt and fly, warm hands dragging his shirt out and trailing along the skin of his hips.

Ianto’s breath is hot through his briefs, thin enough that they don’t block the moistness of Ianto’s tongue as it presses firmly against the line of his dick, tight against the fabric. Jack has to look up, look away, because the image of Ianto’s bruised mouth pressing against his erection is inflammatory. That doesn’t help much, because it slams into Jack just how much they’re outside, how much they’re _on the fucking Plass_. He swallows and grips the rail tighter, shivering as Ianto trails his nails down the line of his braces, and then works them undone so he can slide Jack’s trousers and briefs down his thighs.

“Cold,” Jack murmurs, huffing a laugh. The sun has broken over the horizon, and the light glints off Ianto’s hair as he sits back. Jack blinks a couple of times, eyes torn between the sunrise and the image Ianto makes, sitting back and trailing his thumbs absently across the delicate skin of Jack’s thighs. “Not worried we’ll be caught?”

Ianto shakes his head and wraps a hand around the base of Jack’s cock, dragging up and then down again, pulling the foreskin with it to bare the wet head. The touch of the air is cold, but it only contrasts with the warmth of Ianto’s mouth as he wraps his lips around the head and sucks gently, tongue laving at the slit. Jack moans, the sound dissolving into the salt-kissed wind. He tries to press forward, but Ianto’s hands on his hips stop him, hold him steady.

Ianto lets Jack’s prick slip out from between his lips and looks up. His eyes are bright in the first light of the day, and he licks his lips before speaking. “Don’t. You’re not – let me, okay?”

There’s a flicker of movement in the corner of Jack’s eye, but he ignores it and nods, leaning forward against the rail, coat swinging open around the man kneeling before him. Ianto tugs on his hips, and Jack shuffles forward, his dick pressing against Ianto’s lips as Ianto leans in, steady, before slipping his hands up under Jack’s shirt and splaying them across his stomach. Jack inhales, whimpers, but doesn’t move, holds the unbearable position while Ianto waits for – waits for – Jack has no idea, and he blinks against the sunlight, touching stone with his feet, metal with his hands, and Ianto’s warmth with the head of his cock. The first two are grounding him, holding him to the surface of the planet, as if the touch of Ianto’s mouth has made gravity forget about Jack.

“Please,” Jack says, voice cracking into a whisper. “I – please, Ianto.”

It’s enough, and Ianto swallows down, not stopping until Jack is pressed to the back of his throat, pausing only a moment to breathe deep before pressing further, fitting Jack down carefully, the way he taught him, before, then. Ianto knows he should feel guilty for what he did to Jack, using him, except the honest parts of him, the parts he tries to ignore most days, know that Jack was using him, just as much. To pass the time, to escape from the dark – Ianto doesn’t know why, then, but he knows why now.

He knows why Jack needs this, at least. Why Ianto so desperately wants to be here, on his knees, sucking his boss’s dick on the Plass, is something he’s less eager to examine, but he knows that if Jack looked less wrecked, he wouldn’t be here. Ianto is chillingly aware that it’s Jack, and nothing else, that keeps each and every member of Torchwood from self-destructing, and to succeed at that, Jack needs to be whole, too.

Not because this is a service, or anything so crass, Ianto thinks as he tightens his jaw and focuses on the slide of a cock past his lips. No, Ianto isn’t hard because of the pressure in his throat and the grit under his knees (doubly painful because they're already sore from yesterday) he’s hard because he can smell and taste and feel Jack. He’s hard because even though he has the ocean to the back and the sky above him, he has Jack – Jack’s coat, Jack’s presence – wrapped around him. Jack might not think he’s much of a protector, but even after the trauma of the last twenty-four hours, Ianto feels safe.

He’d rather not think about what that means.

So he works Jack down his throat again, and swallows. He rubs his palms against the planes of Jack’s muscles, before gripping the edge of Jack’s coat with one hand, as if to steady himself, and dropping the other against his own thigh. Jack is close, if the trembling of his thighs is anything to go by, and Ianto tightens his lips around the head and works it rapidly, pressing his palm against his clothed dick with a muted groan as he lets the desire rush up and overwhelm the rebelling ache of his body.

Jack’s echoing groan is lost in the wind picking up off the bay. He’d be freezing if he weren’t boiling over. Ianto knows what he’s doing; he should, they practiced this enough before, and once he brings Jack to the edge he doesn’t relent, just works the swollen head between his lips. The wet push and pull is too much, and Jack comes, gripping the railing to keep from grabbing Ianto by the hair and forcing himself down his throat.

When he’s done, when everything’s been drawn out of him by the force of Ianto’s mouth – or willpower, or whatever it is that keeps him going – and all that’s left are the faint aftershocks of pleasure, Jack shivers and uncurls his hands from the rail. They are stiff with cold, and he fumbles to drag his trousers back up to position. Ianto bats his hands away to do up the fly and belt, the white bandages around his wrists exposed as he tugs down the braces to button them back on, before standing up with a wince.

“Thanks,” Jack says, because he’s not sure what the proper etiquette is for the times when your ex-lover-cum-secretary-cum-traitor sucks you off because you’re not at your best.

“Yeah,” Ianto says, shrugging awkwardly and then reaching out, the gesture almost aborted twice. Jack watches in distant fascination as Ianto grips Jack’s hands and presses them together, his own wrapped around them. “Your hands are cold.”

“We are outside,” Jack points out, watching Ianto’s face carefully. “And I think a postman went by.”

Ianto doesn’t say anything, just rubs Jack’s hands between his for a minute and then lets go, tucking his hands inside his own coat into the pockets of his trousers. The pose emphasizes his erection, tucked up against his fly, and Jack nods to it.

“D’you want…”

“Nah,” Ianto says, hastily removing his hands from his pockets and buttoning up his jacket. “I should get home, bring the paper in, water the plants, you know.”

“You have plants?” Jack asks, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“You think I can’t have plants?” Ianto asks belligerently, but there’s a hint of humour in the twitch of his lip, and he seems more relaxed now that Jack’s gotten off, even if he hasn’t.

“I think you’re almost as much of a workaholic as I am.”

“And yet, you still keep a pet.”

“Myfanwy?” Ianto raises a hand and wiggles his fingers. “Ah. Well, right.”

Ianto snorts. “Eloquent as always, sir. I’ll see you in a few hours.” He starts off down the Plass, over to where Jack knows he parks his car, and it’s a few seconds before Jack regains his composure.

“Don’t call me,” he hollers, hands straightening his collar. “I’ll call you!”

Ianto doesn’t look back, and Jack stands there, grinning like a maniac, until he disappears around the corner. The sun is rising, warming the air around him, and Jack finds a bench and sits, feet sprawled out before him, to watch the new day roll in. Optimism, he thinks, is for fools, except he’s never claimed to be anything but.


End file.
